No Body For Fashion
Last weekend Mister Soandso and I attempted an almost-weekend-away. We managed 21 hours before we needed to come back home and collect a vomiting Littlest. But the 21 hours were quite grand. I was briefly transported back to that awesome hotel this morning as I attempted to wash my hair. As is my normal approach, I took a shower before putting in my contacts. And since I had brought home those cute little bottles from the hotel bathroom and since I was in the mood to be reminded of that great almost-weekend-away, I washed my hair with the hotel shampoo. And then proceeded to put the complimenting and complimentary lotion on my hair instead of the conditioner. This is what happens when you try to operate outside your normal confines.
And I don’t operate very well outside my normal confines, that is for sure.
For example, I am not one known to be on a first-name basis with anything remotely fashionable. Once, at a shower, I drew the question, “What is Isaac Mizrahi known for?” and I had no idea. He is at Target for grief’s sake!!! Anyhoo, folks must see past that little failing of mine because I do have people who go out for coffee with me. Well, sometimes. And I usually have to buy, but I digress.
I just am not that into the fashionable. A big part of that is due to the body I like to call my temple. You know, the one that’s 5’2″ and chubby and has “problem” feet? Yeah, that one. It’s not like I don’t like fashion. It’s just that fashion and I aren’t very comfy bedfellows. Today’s fashions are designed for bodies not like the one I designed with years of bagels, chocolate chip cookies, and red wine.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t find “Mom Jeans” all that hot either. But when you are packing a trunk with some junk in it, is plastering it with sequins and bold white stitching across pocket flaps really all that good of an idea? I don’t think so. And yes, I’d love to pull off those cute low-riders too, but trust me, the view would be…well, over the top.
I figure since I stopped wearing wool socks with my Birkenstocks and sweat pants I should be given some grace. My daughter doesn’t agree.
Besides the miniature bottles of hair products and lotion, part of the take-homes from our 21 hours away are these cute shoes. I like them even though they have less arch support than a pancake. I was looking for something I could slip on to walk the kids to the bus stop, because let’s face it, Danskos with my jammies isn’t too hot of a look. So when I put them on, Middlest noticed right away.
“Are those new shoes, Mom?”
“Yep. Aren’t they cute?”
“Dad made you get them, didn’t he?”
Little minx knows me too well.
You see, if one were to take a gander at my normal wardrobe, it would be a sea of black with some grey or purple thrown in for color. And no, I don’t wear black in some attempt to either channel my inner hipster or to look more slim. I just like it. It goes with everything and since I long outgrew Geranimals, I need all the help I can get putting together something close to “fashionable”.
Actually, that isn’t the truth. I wear a lot of black because dressing this body is such a royal pain. If I were six inches taller, and thirty pounds lighter, I could wear anything I wanted and probably look pretty decent in it. Wide belts? Fashion disaster on me — unless something connecting nipples and hip bones is the new look, in which case I’m your girl. Wide-legged pants with those high heeled pointy shoes? Oh dear. I look heinous and my feet hurt just looking at them. And those jeans this spring in the colors of Snow cones? Let’s just not go there.
So what’s that to leave me besides mom jeans and black tee-shirts? Well, these cute shoes. Which actually hurt my feet if I wear them for too long.
It’s hard not having a body for fashion. But at least I have one. Which I am now going to go put on a black sweater and a black jacket and go pick up the dog poop in the back yard. However, I won’t wear my cool new shoes. Instead, I’ll wear an old pair of rain boots…I’ll let you guess what color they are.
